


We Need More Smart

by DestielsDestiny



Series: How to Dad, by Chris Pike [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Asthma, BAMF Christopher Pike, Christopher Pike is such a Dad, Episode Related, Episode Tag s02e02 New Eden, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Injury Recovery, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 10:05:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17558333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: Even Chris is forced to admit that by this point, his tendency to get himself blown up on every away mission is rather...alarming. Phil has t-shirts to prove it.





	We Need More Smart

**Author's Note:**

> Spock was born in 2230. He joined Starfleet in 2250. The Klingon War ended in 2257, so Spock has been serving with Pike for somewhere between 3-5 years at this point, and I’m adding the idea that he caught Pike’s eye first at the academy, hence the “nearly eight-year acquaintance” referenced here. 
> 
> Dedicated to Captain Christopher Pike. I know he’s going to break all of our hearts, but damn if I’m not falling in love with him all over again anyway.

The doors on Discovery didn’t swish.

 

Chris is forced to laugh at himself at the stray thought, fresh agony ripping down his flank a fitting reward for his own absurdness.

 

The chuckle turns into a wet hack, turns into a dry heave, forcing him to curl forward, his arms hovering a careful inch from his stubbornly aching ribcage.

 

“Captain! Are you well?” The voice is the wrong pitch, coming from the wrong direction, but for a moment the intonation is so _close._

 

Chris swallowed. Lieutenant Spock held onto formality the way others held onto hope, as a last glimmer of sanity in a galaxy of pain and despair and death. But the day the facility on Starbase 5 had called him, the youngest and most brilliant bridge officer he had ever sponsored had thrown formality to the wind, for perhaps the first time in their nearly eight-year acquaintance.

 

Emphatic. That’s what he’d said to Commander Burnham of Spock’s request for privacy.

 

Whether she read the hesitation in his voice, whether she saw the shadow in his eyes, she gave no sign.

 

In that, as in many other things, she was so very like her brother.

 

Emphatic. Pike bit down on his lip, his lungs burning through a cough, a wheeze. A tentative hand brushed his arm.

 

Chris forced his eyes open a fraction, the blurry shape of his new science officer coalescing through his lashes, wide, concerned brown eyes gazing up at him from a crouch by his chair.

 

Spock hadn’t been emphatic. He hadn’t even been frantic.

 

He’d been distraught, the kind of distraught only Spock could be, fidgeting shoulders and eyes that wouldn’t settle and five days of stubble along his chin only some of the blaring signs that something was very much not right with _his_ science officer.

 

Chris remembers curling his fingers into his pant legs until creases formed in the fabric, so strong was the urge to brush his fingers against the screen, to flick on the intercom and send the Enterprise hurtling back the way they’d come. To do something, anything, to help Spock.

 

To help the man he’d watch grow from a too thin boy with perfect posture and eyes that never quite left the floor into one of the finest officers in the fleet, to help the man who was begging him. _Begging_ him to keep this matter private. Between them and whatever officials and medical personnel were necessary. To not inform his family.

 

_Especially_ , his family.

 

Chris had wanted to hate them in that moment, to hate the parents and siblings Spock studiously never mentioned, never spoke of, except in those quietest and most intimate of moments, over chess or on the Gamma shift in the wee hours of the morning, only a skeleton crew on the bridge.

 

They were scattered, scarce things, those moments of camaraderie, of warmth, of friendship. Even scarcer were the mentions of the family Spock had left behind.

 

A particularly slow-burn win by Pike on the chess board; third level, rook takes king, playing white. Spock had tilted one elegant eyebrow, and _paused._ A fraction of a second, but still; “Exceptional strategy, Captain. The epitome of a logical double gambit.” Another pause. Then, “My father also favours such a strategy.”

 

The first time Number One coaxes Spock back to Chris’ quarters for a mission debrief, the lad still an ensign barely out of the academy, eyeing the hot chocolate Chris places in front of him like it’s a live cobra. “My mother used to prepare apple cider for us, Sir”

 

There is a reverence in that tone, a wistfulness that makes Chris check the records as much as the tense used. On route to ascertaining that Lady Amanda is, in fact, still alive and well, Chris stumbles across Spock’s dietary requirements.

 

He throws out his entire hot chocolate supply with a fervour that rather alarms Phil, who slouches on the couch with a drawled, “Chris, you do know Vulcans aren’t dogs, right?”

 

The next time Spock follows his Captain gamely into danger, Chris shows up in Sick Bay with a sternly furrowed brow, his arms laden with pads, a thermos of cider clasped in his hands.

 

“You risk your life like that again Ensign, and I _will_ ground you. Clear?” Spock, in keeping with form, attempted to still his muscles until the tremor that ran through his frame shook the whole bio-bed. “Yes, Captain.” And damn if the boy’s voice didn’t quaver, just a little.

 

Chris sighed, slouching into a chair and thrusting the thermos towards Spock. “Apple.” He doesn’t wait to observe the reaction, merely picking a pad at random and clearing his throat. “When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor…”

 

Phil pries the empty mug out of Spock’s hands carefully, tucking a blanket around the sleeping Vulcan’s shoulders and slanting Chris an indulgent smile. “Finally guessed right huh?”

 

Chris rubbed tiredly at his eyes, waving yet another pad in the air. “Only took twelve tries.” And he’s almost too tired to catch it, his eyes sliding shut as another blanket is draped over the chair he is occupying, but Phil’s gravelly chuckle follows him off to sleep, “Lewis Carroll huh? Who’d have thought it.”

 

If Chris had been more awake, he might have found the energy to tell Phil that Dr. Amanda Grayson once wrote an undergraduate paper on the works of Lewis Carroll. As it is, he merely casts a last look at the peacefully sleeping form of his science officer, and follows his subordinate’s excellent example, and finally gets some well-deserved rest.

 

Spock only mentions his brother once, Chris sounding off with Number One on how best to break it to his sister that his niece not only wished to join Starfleet, but Chris had promised to support her decision in the ensuing family fallout.

 

Spock had kept his gaze firmly on the survey results illuminated above the table, his voice as neutral as Pike had ever heard it. “When my brother left home, he did not inform anyone prior to his departure. It was…not logical.” Chris tries very hard not to wince, for once cursing the eidetic memory that almost allows him to keep up with Spock at chess, on his sharpest days.

 

_Age eight, severe dehydration and second degree burns from exposure._

 

Mojave wasn’t exactly as arid as Vulcan, but his nieces also weren’t half Vulcan.

 

“I’ll tell Arielle to wait until my next leave to tell her Mom.” Spock keeps looking at the table, and Chris keeps pretending he isn’t picturing a miniature of his ensign chasing vainly after his elder brother’s flitter across a landscape as harsh and unforgiving as the emotional control the kid seemed so determined to perfect better than any full-blooded Vulcans.

 

But he takes Spock along on his next leave, and between himself and Number One, his sister’s family makes it through Thanksgiving intact. He even talks Millie into making the Turkey out of non-meat substitute.

 

Spock takes precisely one bite, chews ten times, swallows, and resolutely places his utensils down on his napkin. He looks like a cat attempting to swim. “Captain…this is quite inedible.” For reasons he doesn’t examine too closely, Chris feels like he’s won a million bucks, ducking his head close to Spock’s, artfully placing his napkin to conceal his broad grin from his sister. “And here you thought you wouldn’t get the hang of Thanksgiving, Mr. Spock.”

 

Spock’s raised eyebrow speaks volumes more than a thousand-watt grin ever could.

 

00

 

“Captain, shall I call for medical assistance?” Chris forced his eyes to open again, forced words up past the pain, past the wheezing. “N-no n-need. Commander.” He sucked in a breath and held it through the pain, gasping out again in the next instant.

 

The hand on his arm tightened fractionally, the eyes locked on his face so much more expressive than their owner would perhaps wish. “Just..need…to.” Another sucked in breath. “Catch my…breath.” Pike huffed out a wheezy laugh at the incredulous look that earned him. It was very Spockesque, that look. Wrong eyebrow raised, but still.

 

Chris bowed to the inevitable, pointing to the jacket hanging from the back of his desk chair. “Inhaler. Please.” Burnham needed no further prompting, swift and efficient in her retrieval of the requested item. She held it out to him with enough hesitancy that he just had a moment to read the faint irritation in her eyes. Chris held out his hand with another grin, sly and large, if also a touch breathless.

 

“It’s alright Commander. You’ll…have plenty of time…to do adequate…resear-” Chris broke off into yet another fit of coughs and wheezes, shaking the medicine and bringing it to his mouth with pained urgency.

 

Watchful eyes followed his every movement, observing, memorising, learning. Spock had looked exactly like that, the first time Pike had an attack on an away mission. More annoyed at his own ignorance of how to properly assist in the situation than his Captain’s foolishness at beaming down to a planet where the average temperature was 50 _below_ , on a balmy day.

 

Chris lowered the inhaler, swallowing around the dryness in the back of his throat. “Trust me Commander, you’ll know what to do next time.”

 

Michael Burnham’s eyes were sharp with shrewdness, but warm with concern. “This happens often Sir?”

 

Chris breathed in a sigh of relief as the pain receded slightly, rubbing a hand cautiously over his sternum. “Often enough.” He smiled crookedly, “Shattered ribs don’t exactly help much.”

 

Michael smiled at the joke, just the edge of a curve of her lips, “I imagine not, Captain.”

 

Pike had made a career of leading through connection. An admiral had once described his command style as _gentle_ , of all things.

 

Still, even for him, what slipped out next was rather inappropriately familiar for such a brief acquaintance. “You have the same smile. You and Spock.”

 

Her lips slipped downward into a frown, more puzzled than affronted. Incredulous, even. But not with disapproval. No, more…was that…hope?

 

“You’ve seen Spock smile?”

 

A silver quick grin on graduation from the academy, his future science officer’s black eyes finding him and Number One in the crowd.

 

A startled laugh of relief and pain on his first away mission, exclaiming “Captain!” the moment Pike emerged from a blast crater, singed and still smoking but remarkably whole, “I’m fine Mr. Spock.” And then, the first sighting of what Chris privately came to refer to as the eyebrow of doom.

 

And now that he thought about it, not unlike the look Commander Burnham’s given him with alarming frequency since his latest round of getting himself blown up and living to proclaim himself, “Fine and dandy and bleeding from every pore,” as Phil actually printed on a t-shirt on their last shore leave.

 

Spock had spent half a day explaining in eloquent and controlled tones why Phil, “as Captain Pike’s primary care physician, should find nothing amusing in the Captain’s alarming propensity for finding danger at every opportunity, nor his habitual downplaying of the severity of the injuries he inevitably incurs in the process.”

 

Their next away mission, Spock limping after him like a protective sehlat, refusing assistance or rest, Chris rather thought Spock had lost any traction in this ongoing argument. But watching Spock brush his hand over an alarmingly coloured fuzzy plant thing, for a moment more joyful kid than dedicated scientist, a delighted smile breaking across his face as he looked up at Chris and exclaimed, “Captain, look!”

 

In the face of that open, honest to goodness _joyfulness_ , for a moment free from any tinge of guilt or shame or restraint, Chris couldn’t bring himself to either reprimand or tease Spock for neglecting his own health, as Chris had so poorly modelled for him.

 

He reached for his inhaler again, the echo of the memory bringing a chuckle to his voice that did nothing to ease the continued tightness of his shoulders, “Yeah Commander, I’ve seen Spock smile.”

 

His new science officer seemed to consider her next words carefully, but there was a naked honesty, a need to her next words that tugged at Chris’ chest, “What…what is it like? His smile?”

 

Spock only mentioned his sister once too. His very first shift on the bridge, still a cadet, his words halting and hesitant, his gaze lowered and shoulders stiff with fear and anxiety so clear anyone could see it, not just Chris.

 

And yet, he still saved all their lives that day. Twice.

 

In the aftermath, Chris had to order him to get some rest, sending him on his way with a gentle hand hovering just above his shoulder, not close enough to touch, but, he hoped, close enough to offer some measure to reassurance and comfort. “That was a very smart catch, Cadet. Where did you learn to read sensors like that?”

 

A shudder had run through the boy’s body, which swayed towards Pike’s touch rather than away. Chris counted it as a win that the voice, when it came, was rock steady, “From my sister, sir.”

 

Chris cracked a grin at the obvious pride in that tone. “Well, sounds like she’s real smart too.”

 

The Nevadan accent slipping in there earned him his first ever eyebrow quirk, as well as his first clear glimpse of brown eyes so dark they were almost black. Almost Vulcan. Almost.

 

“She is…Captain.” Chris slowly, carefully let his hand fall the extra centimeters, resting for just a moment on Spock’s uniformed shoulder, not squeezing, not moving, just touching for a moment, doing his best to project as much warmth and pride into his grip as he can.

 

“Well good, we need more smart these days, Mr. Spock.”

 

Even years later, Spock never quite seemed to get the hang of his Captain’s humour, so that only earned him a bemused, “Yes, Captain.”

 

But somehow, from that moment, Pike was _his_ Captain. Just as Spock was _Chris’_ officer. No matter what storms may come, what tempests may break.

 

Spock had also known his Shakespeare.

 

Chris met the dark, warm brown eyes of Spock’s big sister, and smiled through the breathlessness, through the screaming of his ribs and the aching of his heart as he thought of Spock’s absence from his bridge.

 

“Well Commander…it’s rather like yours.”

 

00

 

When Lady Amanda beams aboard the Discovery, searching for her youngest son, beaming at the sight of her daughter, Chris will step forward, hands carefully clasped at his sides, letting her make the first move about the greeting, be it human or Vulcan.

 

And when he says, “It’s an honour to meet you Ma’am,” he means every word.


End file.
